Little Party
by madworlds
Summary: Haymitch attends a Capitol Party. — Slightly HaymitchEffie. For Yew and the New Years Exchange at Caesar's Palace.


**A/N: I'm not sure what this is, sorry. Nor do I know how it became sort of HaymitchEffie (I was trying to write Odesta?).****For Yew (happy new year!) and the New Years Exchange at Caesar's Palace.**

—

Snow's party falls on a night of typical summer humidity, made hotter by the sheer amount of bodies clustered inside the President's ballroom. The other victors are already working when Haymitch arrives, minus the usual escort, since his received a promotion and fled straight to District Four. His lateness has passed the point where it could be labelled fashionable, really, but none of the partygoers will mention it, at least not where he can hear them. There is something off putting about the brusque Victor from Twelve who sunk into a bottle aged barely thirty. He almost makes them wary; uncomplaining, the people near the door move to allow him to make his way to the open bar.

Haymitch sinks onto a stool there, gives off a tiny sigh.

He elbows the man next to him, who turns, a half smile on his face. "Almost thought you weren't coming," Chaff says.

"Can't miss this party," and it's true, because even though Snow has nothing to bargain with, this is his own, personal event, and Haymitch is too fond of his own skin to risk it. Not even fond, really, it's just that he's gone through an arena, had forty seven other kids die and indirectly condemned his family to be able to turn down clients at VIP Capitol parties. It's not how he'd have chosen for it to go, maybe, but it's not worth throwing away so easily now that he's got it.

"Huh."

Haymitch accepts the drink the other Victor offers him. "What is it?" he asks, downing half of it without waiting for an answer. Alcohol's just alcohol, after all, when you're drinking to forget.

"Boring," a voice interjects. A woman wearing feathers in her hair and the most lace he's seen on a dress, ever, sits next to him and wrinkles her nose at his glass. "I can't believe you came here just to sit here and drink that."

Haymitch looks at his glass, raises an eyebrow. There is Cashmere halfway up the staircase, chatting to a man twice her age, her face as smooth as the marble bannister she rests her hand on; Gloss, who's disappeared out to a balcony on the next floor with an overeager client who can't keep her hands off him. Chaff is three quarters drunk on the stool by his, and on the other side of the room, Finnick Odair has at least three ladies hooked on his smile. For all Haymitch knows, they've booked him together.

"Do you dance?" the woman asks. Haymitch looks back at her and lifts the other eyebrow. It took him seven years of mentoring to get the left one to rise properly, and he almost doesn't regret it.

"I've left my dancing shoes at home, sweetheart, but you could ask Chaff here." Sarcasm hangs heavy in his tone.

Her head tilts. The gaudy feathers in her hair make Haymitch think of one of the tiny birds near his house in the Victor's Village. They tend to regard him in much the same way when he chucks a stale loaf of bread out of his window, like they're wondering whether he's sane giving them so much food. "You're as bad as they said you were."

He wonders who they are, shrugs it off. "Don't you have someplace to be? You should go find somebody who'll dance with you."

"I don't dance," she says flatly. "It's Effie Trinket, by the way. Since you didn't ask."

Behind him, Chaff snorts and nudges him. Hurriedly, Haymitch forestalls the suggestive comment that is sure to follow. Sometimes he wishes his friend wasn't so lewd when his filters are down. "If you don't dance, why'd you ask?"

She doesn't answer him directly, instead looks out over the ballroom. He follows her gaze and almost rolls his eyes when he sees she's watching Finnick Odair. Figures.

"Drink this." Effie presses a thin glass into his hand. He wonders at how easy it would be to clench his fist and shatter it. "Champagne. Drink of the gods, haven't you heard?" Her laugh is airy and bright and goes for too long, everything that Haymitch hates.

He looks at it warily. "I think I'll stick with my other one, actually," he starts, but she cuts him off.

"Suit yourself." She stands, gives a tiny wave and makes her way into the crowd. One of the feathers in her hair falls out as she walks; he watches it hit the ground.

Haymitch looks back at the wineglass in his hand, then at Chaff, who's on his fifth drink and shows no signs of stopping.

Shrugging, he drains the glass.

—

Three weeks later, he's shown into a meeting with three of the organisers of the Games. Stone cold sober, too, which he thinks is a shame. Inebriation might serve as an excuse for him to tell all three of them to go jump and screw the Games. He doesn't quite dare to do it without the liquor to back him up, and settles for glaring at the assistant who shows him in.

He stops short three steps into the room, stares.

"Ah, Mr Abernathy," one of the organisers — Cormier? Campbell? — says. "We've found you a new escort." He stops, perhaps waiting for enthusiasm, or even a word of thanks. Haymitch takes pleasure in pointedly giving him none.

She doesn't have feathers in her hair today, or a massive skirt, but he recognises her all the same. Karma, he thinks, goddamn it.

"Did you ever drink that champagne?" Effie Trinket asks


End file.
